asked. Redneck Brian could no longer contain himself and bent over laughing behind the counter.
"How about duct tape, wire ties, cigars, and Vaseline?" Shells continued. Redneck Brian was no longer even trying to hide his guffaws.
"Oh, God," he said. "You've gotta stop. You're killing me."
Ms. Haughty manager collected the requested items and slammed them onto the counter before Shells, who looked increasingly pleased with herself.
"Will there be anything else?"
"Oh, hey. I forgot whipped cream," Sam said.
"Now that's enough," said the woman behind the counter looking more indignant and judgmental than before. "I don't have to serve you. Now get out of here and don't come back."
"Your loss," Shells said, while backing to the door. "Those D batteries ain't cheap, and I might be needing more soon."
Once back in the car, Sam considered eating her sandwich in the parking lot, but given her recent run-in with the State Police, she felt it better to find somewhere else to sit. The Corner Bar parking lot was not an option for obvious reasons. She would just have to wait until they got to Cowtown.
"The whipped cream was a nice touch," Shells said, and she bumped knuckles with Sam.
If dropped from a plane into Cowtown and asked what state you were in, very few people would guess New Jersey. Sam would bet that most people didn't think there were any cows or cowboys in New Jersey, but Cowtown rose above the plain like a great monument to rodeos, horse racing, and of course, the world famous flea market; 'Often imitated, never equaled.' Just across from the State Trooper Barracks stood a two-story high statue of a cowboy, and a twice-life-sized red bull.
Rows of open sided pole barns surrounded fully enclosed barns, and the place had a sense of age that couldn't be manufactured. Though much of the wood sported a fresh coat of paint, all of it was worn and warped by time, each board with its own character and history to tell. Sam could remember coming to this place for as long as she had lived. And pretty much everyone in the county attended the rodeo at some point or another. Sam had always found it to be hearty, earthy fun.
Saturdays were busy days at Cowtown, as the flea market runs through the day, and the rodeo runs at night. Sam parked across the street, adjacent to the barracks, and next to the barn that had once been used as stalls during the New Jersey Sire Stakes races at Cowtown Raceway. The raceway was little more than a pasture, which currently housed a herd of cattle. It was not the classiest track on the circuit, but it had character to spare. It fit Salem County perfectly; it had been around a while and showed its age, but was unlike anything anywhere else.
After eating her sandwich, Sam wadded up the paper and threw it into the back seat.
"That's just wrong, man," Shells said. "You gotta quit trashing your car. Maybe we could get a little trash can for the back seat while we're here."
That was one of the great things about Cowtown, you could find just about anything and there were even things you'd never think to go looking for. People from all around set up tables and booths, ranging from a single card table to elaborate semi-permanent storefronts.
"Aw, man. Roasted peanuts. I've gotta get some, dude." Shells said.
"Really? Of all the good stuff here, you're turned on by peanuts?"
"They're friggen' awesome! And you can just throw the shells on the ground. This place is righteous." Shells had grown up in urban Delaware, and Sam could still remember the first time she brought Shells to Cowtown. It had been quite a spectacle.
Shells walked alongside Sam utterly engrossed in her peanuts
The smells in the air also ran the gamut, from the smell of dust and old manure to the smell of roasting peanuts and chickens. Somehow it managed to be almost pleasant on all accounts. This place was a tactile, sensory, and cultural experience.
Walking past booths displaying jewelry, used books, and video games, they
"How about duct tape, wire ties, cigars, and Vaseline?" Shells continued. Redneck Brian was no longer even trying to hide his guffaws.
"Oh, God," he said. "You've gotta stop. You're killing me."
Ms. Haughty manager collected the requested items and slammed them onto the counter before Shells, who looked increasingly pleased with herself.
"Will there be anything else?"
"Oh, hey. I forgot whipped cream," Sam said.
"Now that's enough," said the woman behind the counter looking more indignant and judgmental than before. "I don't have to serve you. Now get out of here and don't come back."
"Your loss," Shells said, while backing to the door. "Those D batteries ain't cheap, and I might be needing more soon."
Once back in the car, Sam considered eating her sandwich in the parking lot, but given her recent run-in with the State Police, she felt it better to find somewhere else to sit. The Corner Bar parking lot was not an option for obvious reasons. She would just have to wait until they got to Cowtown.
"The whipped cream was a nice touch," Shells said, and she bumped knuckles with Sam.
If dropped from a plane into Cowtown and asked what state you were in, very few people would guess New Jersey. Sam would bet that most people didn't think there were any cows or cowboys in New Jersey, but Cowtown rose above the plain like a great monument to rodeos, horse racing, and of course, the world famous flea market; 'Often imitated, never equaled.' Just across from the State Trooper Barracks stood a two-story high statue of a cowboy, and a twice-life-sized red bull.
Rows of open sided pole barns surrounded fully enclosed barns, and the place had a sense of age that couldn't be manufactured. Though much of the wood sported a fresh coat of paint, all of it was worn and warped by time, each board with its own character and history to tell. Sam could remember coming to this place for as long as she had lived. And pretty much everyone in the county attended the rodeo at some point or another. Sam had always found it to be hearty, earthy fun.
Saturdays were busy days at Cowtown, as the flea market runs through the day, and the rodeo runs at night. Sam parked across the street, adjacent to the barracks, and next to the barn that had once been used as stalls during the New Jersey Sire Stakes races at Cowtown Raceway. The raceway was little more than a pasture, which currently housed a herd of cattle. It was not the classiest track on the circuit, but it had character to spare. It fit Salem County perfectly; it had been around a while and showed its age, but was unlike anything anywhere else.
After eating her sandwich, Sam wadded up the paper and threw it into the back seat.
"That's just wrong, man," Shells said. "You gotta quit trashing your car. Maybe we could get a little trash can for the back seat while we're here."
That was one of the great things about Cowtown, you could find just about anything and there were even things you'd never think to go looking for. People from all around set up tables and booths, ranging from a single card table to elaborate semi-permanent storefronts.
"Aw, man. Roasted peanuts. I've gotta get some, dude." Shells said.
"Really? Of all the good stuff here, you're turned on by peanuts?"
"They're friggen' awesome! And you can just throw the shells on the ground. This place is righteous." Shells had grown up in urban Delaware, and Sam could still remember the first time she brought Shells to Cowtown. It had been quite a spectacle.
Shells walked alongside Sam utterly engrossed in her peanuts
The smells in the air also ran the gamut, from the smell of dust and old manure to the smell of roasting peanuts and chickens. Somehow it managed to be almost pleasant on all accounts. This place was a tactile, sensory, and cultural experience.
Walking past booths displaying jewelry, used books, and video games, they
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